Strangers: A Novel(103)
Von Ritteck takes another step toward Gabor, who clearly needs all his willpower not to flinch. “If? Your role was to keep all risks far from the squadron. Or to at least immediately inform me of your failure and obey my orders. And believe you me, they would have been clear.”
Gabor tries to interject, but von Ritteck silences him with a quick hand movement. “As far as I know, Thieben isn’t the only problem. What’s the situation with the other two workers?”
“Both dead,” explains Gabor hastily. “They think Nadine Balke committed suicide, and Morbach’s body will never be found. Not in the next ten years, at least.”
For a moment I’m glad that Lambert is holding me in such an iron grip. Bernhard Morbach. The man with the laptop bag, the one who warned me. You have to disappear, as quickly as you can. Please believe me. This isn’t a joke, you have to get yourself to safety.
It seems that he hadn’t managed to do the same himself.
“Morbach.” A trace of regret appears on von Ritteck’s face. “He was promising. Very dedicated to the German cause; I liked him. Another few years and he would have had the necessary hardness to not lose his mind over a few deaths when the well-being of the homeland is at stake. He would have understood that they died for their country like soldiers. Victims of a necessary war against these subhumans with their prayer mats and veils, who presume to enjoy the same rights on German soil as we do.” He stomps his walking stick on the floor once more. “Who dare threaten us, strike fear into the hearts of our wives and our children with their terrorism. But this time they will suffer the consequences.”
Slowly, very slowly, it was dawning on me. The project. Project Phoenix, that must be it. That’s what this man is talking about. Over a hundred dead, in order to fuel the hate of the population—toward Muslims primarily, but also toward anything foreign.
Absolute madness. And yes, the elections were in two weeks.…
I haven’t read any papers in the past few days, and I’ve barely been online—the desire to survive had left no room for anything else. But I can imagine what a surge of emotion there must have been on social media. How fertile the ground must have been for right-wing populist politicians and their simple solutions, even hours after the attack. Die for their country like soldiers. I think of the pictures on television and of what Erik told me. I hope against hope that this von Ritteck and all his helpers will get caught, exposed, that they will pay for what they’ve done.
The only thing I want more than that is to survive. But considering what I now know, this is even more unlikely than before.
Gabor seems to have regained his composure a little. “That’s all as close to my heart as it is to yours,” he explains. “That’s why I volunteered for this mission. Why would I have done that if our goals weren’t more important to me than my own well-being?”
Von Ritteck looks him up and down. “Desire for recognition, perhaps?” he says dryly. “And, of course, you also know how influential the people are who you’re trying to get in with.”
Gabor looks genuinely hurt. “Is that what you think of me? I assure you, I would sacrifice myself for the cause without a moment’s hesitation. And I will; I’ll take the blame and protect everyone else if Phoenix should fail because of my mistakes.”
It’s hard to say whether von Ritteck believes him. He just stands there in silence. Then he slowly turns his head.
Until now, the man hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction, but now he looks at me for the first time. For a long while. Without expression.
I don’t avert my gaze; after all, I have nothing left to lose now. “Phoenix cannot be allowed to fail,” he says, before turning to look at Gabor again. “Just out of interest: do you realize who you have in your custody here?” He points the head of his stick toward me.
“Yes, of course. That’s Erik Thieben’s fiancée. Her name is Joanna.”
“Aha.” Von Ritteck slowly shifts his weight from his right leg to his left. “Joanna what?”
It’s clear from Gabor’s face that he considers this question to be no more than an annoyance. That a response like “but that’s irrelevant” lies on the tip of his tongue, and that he only stops himself from saying it out of respect and, most likely, fear too. “Joanna Berrigan. She’s Australian, a photographer, and she’s been living in Germany for about a year.”
“Correct, except unfortunately you seem to have missed the most important detail,” von Ritteck says, interrupting him. “So maybe I should fill you in, then. Berrigan, huh? Think for a moment, Gabor.” He waits for a few seconds. “Doesn’t the name mean anything to you? No? Just as I suspected. I have no intention of making a speech about the influence and fortune of her father, so I’ll just say this: she is not the kind of person you can simply make disappear without having to face consequences to surpass your wildest imaginations.”
He’s caught Gabor out, that’s obvious. His gaze flits over to me, then back over to von Ritteck, who is pulling his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “How come I know that and you don’t, Gabor? Can you explain that to me?”
“No.” Gabor draws himself up. “Clearly this oversight is my responsibility. But if the plan that I initiated months ago had worked, this problem would have been solved all at once.”